


Portrait of a Man (As I Look It Blurs)

by Vaeyana



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:32:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5614033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaeyana/pseuds/Vaeyana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say he was the Devil's child, evil incarnate. Yet I remember a man with a vision, who had the dedication and persistence to see it through. </p><p>This is his influence. This is his legacy. </p><p>Such is the power and beauty of the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portrait of a Man (As I Look It Blurs)

They say he was the Devil's child—evil incarnate. Yet I remember a man with a vision, who had the dedication and persistence to see it through. They say he was brutal, unforgiving, and insane—yet I remember a young man who quietly wept after his first owl was killed by a passing hawk. I know, cynically enough, that my story, written for self closure, if nothing else, will never be accepted. It will be pushed aside as the confused ramblings of an old woman This disregard, this blindness of humanity to see only their own view has proved their downfall countless times over the centuries. It lead to his. He was, after all, only human.

When I first met him, I was young—full of the naivety and innocence of youth. I remember seeing him, dark and handsome, standing tall and proud, surrounded by his followers. Yet, even then, I remember being struck by his youth, barely older than me. This was the man who would lead us to greatness? And then I saw how the older, more experienced men flocked around him, jostling for his attention like courtiers to a King, my own father amongst them and I knew that there was much more to this man than first reached the eye.

I remember our first, true meeting. I had fallen and he, rounding the corner of the garden where I lay, had helped me to my feet. For once, he was alone. I stammered my thanks, bashfully looking to the ground, until he took my chin in gentle hands and raised my face to look at him. He spoke, and though I cannot now remember what of, I can still picture his eyes—those that people now describe as being alight with madness—eyes I remember as being very dark and sparkling with good humour. It was not until later that the pale gleam f fanaticism took hold. It was at this meeting that I fully beheld his power and potential. He was charismatic, persuasive and commanding. He was passionate. To me, he was wonderful. Somewhere along the way, this awe and respect I held for a boy only a few years my elder turned to love. I like to think this love was reciprocated. I think it was. I was with him, at his side for all his reign. I knew him.

People are frightened of power and those possessing it. Seeing his actions, while not understanding his beliefs, they built up and image of him that could only be false, as all that stem from fear, prejudice and ignorance are. They said he was a power-hungry tyrant, the epitome of inhumanity. They justified themselves by advertising those who died or lost their homes due to his regime. Perhaps they are right and I am just as blinded as I believe them to be. However, when I think of him, I see the man behind the "madness", the man he showed to me.—maybe only to me.

He did so many terrible, yet great things. Where did he go wrong? The reason, I believe, stems from the fact that he was only human. With success, comes confidence; with confidence comes arrogance and with arrogance, recklessness. Recklessness itself can only result in mistakes. This inevitable cycle, which has plagued history's great leaders for aeons, is the curse of greatness. Pride cometh before a fall, they say.

What a fall it was.

They say he was evil –that he shouldn't be allowed to live to continue his scourge of the earth. And so he, who was once so great, so promising as a youth, was killed, by one as young as he, when he first began. I can only hope that this boy is spared the fate of other great people before him, spared the plaguing cycle.

I like to think he died with dignity—but is there dignity in death?

They celebrate now, their laughter and fireworks colliding high in the sky in a cacophony of euphoria and exhilaration and relief. They celebrate that he is finally gone, that they have finally killed him. Yet they haven't killed him—not completely, Though his body lies rotting in an unmarked, untended and forgotten grave, as do his followers, as mine will soon, the memories of who he was—either the tyrant or the man—will remain. In history books, no matter how misrepresented, he will be immortal.

This is his influence. This is his legacy.

Such is the power and beauty of the man.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at FanFiction.net as "An Inverted Recollection".
> 
> I'm currently transferring all my works across to AO3, as a single platform. Apologies for the disparity in styles (and quality!). Some were written recently, others - such as this one - when I was still at school.
> 
> Even so, I hope the variety will mean you find at least one story to enjoy!


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